Mania
by devilberry
Summary: All it takes is one match.
1. Flames

_Dear children, start fires. They're pretty._

_I'm going to make this a two-shot. With the second chapter being stupid shit in Bakura's point of view...But I may abandon it. I suck at commitments._

_And my ability to write Malik and Bakura in character sucks. But I kind of like them this way~_

* * *

I will set this fucking bed on fire.

I will tie your arms together with that leather rope around your neck. I will smash your face in with the golden artifact that holds your life inside of its sharp metallic hands. I will slice you open with its pointed spears.

I will kill you. Burn you. Carve a prophecy into your back, just so you know how it _feels_.

You know what pain feels like because you've seen it. Seen the people you love die. Seen the people you need to kill be killed. Seen me…at my worst.

You've felt nothing.

And I will kill you, I swear I will. Destroy you. I wanttoneedtohaveto.

Set you on fire, my dear. You look so good in red. Red like those pretty little flames that obliterated your village—killed ninety nine of your closest friends and family, ate them up like the lot of thieves that they were. Red like that crimson regret that stains your immaculate host's ashen head. Red like those pretty little guts you splash against every dark alley that you can get your hands on.

You are such a sadistic bastard. And you smirk, and you know it, and you love it.

And it's comforting. To know where you sleep at night.

It's nice, I think, the way that you press your body—_his_ body, that body, the body. Whatever—against mine.

I'm a liar, and you're a thief, but I can kill you if I want to. And I will, someday.

It's a game and we both know it. You called it "love" once, but you were just trying to cheat. Trying to confuse me—throw me off focus.

But I can see straight through your soft white skin and your soft white hair. Everything about you is so colorless like that. White. White like a straight jacket, white like the walls of an asylum, white like the white that our bed sheets were before the sweat and the blood and the sex.

White like the whitehot center of a fire. The hottest part, where the flame burns brightest. Where I will shove your pretty little host's body, and cremate his fucking corpse. Turn your white, stainless perfection into a dusty black ash. And then smear it across these sheets. These stained, disgusting, dirty, deliciously imperfect sheets that we share night after night. (That is, if they're not charred beyond recognition, as your paleprettyperfect body will be.)

The book of matches jingles around in my pocket as I take step after step. The thin wooden sticks—and how _easy _would it be to break the little things? Almost as easy as snapping your host's neck…—clash together and sing a sick little song as I walk. I almost wonder why I have an entire little package, I'm only going to need one. Wrap it up in a pretty little box, top it with a white bow. Give you a gasoline bath. Tuck you into bed. Set the whole thing in flames.

You need to burn. Burn hot and fast and red. Burn like you should be—somewhere in Hell. Where you belong after 3,000 long years of sinning and killing. Burn like the crimsonhot tip of a knife, ready to scar and maim and deform and mark for years and years.

You remind me so much of my father that it hurts, Bakura.

Both of you spending your lives chasing after pointless things—be it the return of a nameless Pharaoh or his life in your hands. You crave vengeance for the deaths of those you loved (_I never meant to kill my own mother...) _You hold that same dark, wicked look in your eyes.

(Neither of you know how to properly hold a sad little boy, crying and broken.)

You both fucking love me, don't you? Love how weak and malleable I am. How easily my skin can be torn and marked and bruised. Disfugired. Mutilated. You're both such fucking sick, evil, dirty bastards.

He died by my hands,

(_nonono, it was my dark half...It was the Pharaoh...it wasn't me...)_

and you will do the same.


	2. Ashes

_A wild update appears. I kind of made Bakura a pansy (by _my _sick standards, at least.)_

_Enjoy the horrific finale of my one and only completed chaptered story._

_

* * *

_

I love the way that you laugh.

In the most unsentimental sense possible, of course. It isn't as though I have the human capabilities to actually _feel_ things like love. Guilt. Remorse. Fondness. Anything, really, outside of hatred.

But when something goes wrong—ohso deliciously wrong—you laugh. Maybe it's a nervous habit. Maybe you can't cope with things normally. Maybe you just get this sick sadomasochistic thrill out of experiencing pain and death and failure. But you laugh. Always. _Ahahahahahhhaha._

It's like music to my fucking ears, I swear to the Gods. Better than the _crack_ of bones breaking and the _slrrp_ of organs squishing around inside the rotting cage of a corpse. Better than the sweet, hot, noise of flesh on flesh and the _harder faster more—oh_.

It's a maniacal little sound, it is. It vibrates off the walls with such madness and repressed hatred and someone had Daddy issues, didn't they?

(I never knew my father very well. Only knew his cremated ashes that smeared on my tan skin as I ranran_ran_ away from my home sweet home.)

And I know that you were tortured, Malik. I know that you're a hurt little boy, and maybe I care about that more than I know. Maybe my golden coffin had kept me locked away for just a bit too long and now I've decayed too far. Maybe I'm even less mutated and mangled than I think I am. Maybe I can feel and love and hate and regret like a normal non-demonic human being.

Or maybe I'm just a sick, sick, sick fuck. And you were stupid enough to fall in love with me.

And don't even try to lie to me, Malik. With those big purple eyes and that sickly sweet smile and I can see _right_ through you. I know when you're lying and you're hiding something and when I breathe loving lies into your ears and we both know I'm deceiving you, I _know_ that you want me to be telling the truth.

_"I love you,"_ and sometimes I wonder why you haven't shoved the Millennium Rod into my host's skull yet.

(Sometimes I think that in between all the blood and the hatred and the sex that we've forgotten that this body isn't _mine_. So maybe you haven't killed me yet because you can't. I'm going to live forever, little Malik, and there's not a thing you can do to stop the heart that I don't even have from beating.)

I'd be fairly indifferent on the whole matter if you were to slaughter my host, actually.

That psychotic look in your eyes and the burning orange in your hand says that you just may do exactly that.

_Bakura_, you say to me. Knowing that it's me and not a pale, soft, innocent reflection of myself. _I'm going to kill you now_. And you laugh, and I almost lie down across the stained sheets and offer myself to you. Just so I can hear your sweet cackling lull me into my eternal sleep for another 3,000 years.

You want to kill me with fire, judging by the burning match in your hand and the psychotic grin that's painted itself across your countenance, and I can't help but find that poetic in some way. My host is the first thing that I've cared about in any sort of way since my village was killedburneddestroyed by a million dancing flames, so it's only fair that he goes down in the same fashion.

Pardon my hypocrisy, for it's not as though I give two shits about the well-being of _Ryou Bakura_, but he's the first living breathing thing that's been able to live with my evil tainting his mind. I thank him for this.

So I tell you calmly. _Malik, no. You're not going to kill me. You can't._ And the look on your prettypretty face is just so very indignant. You're offended. The look in your lavender eyes screams, I can kill whomever I damn well please.

But not me, Bakura, not me because I will fucking live _forever_.

_You can destroy my host, but I won't die._

And the fire is eating the match so quickly that the wood is burned down to the bottom. It's scalding your bronze fingertips. You put it out.

_You couldn't kill me even if I wanted you to._

After 3,000 years of vengeance and hatred, death couldn't be all that bad.


End file.
